Already, it was so: the scent of orange blossoms at the window, sun-jostled, bearing the sting of the finite. I thought of birds in those branches as jewels, hard, refracting light onto our walls, and knew whatever gleaming they may have done was not for us. Knowledge came disguised in sweetness and with such ease, it astonished. We knew, eventually, we would want different things. Then we started wanting them.
